


Well, I Wonder

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: M/M, RPS - Freeform, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you hear me when you sleep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well, I Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Inspiration for this fic came from a photo and me trolling 20digitcombo and saying that Johnny was wearing Andy's jacket. The conversation ended with a theory saying Andy lost his jacket to Johnny in a bet, and 20digitcombo helpfully illustrated it with this snippet:
> 
> Andy: ‘I bet you wouldn’t snog Mozzer right in front of the camera.’  
> Johnny: ‘I bet I would! What’ll ya give me if I do?’  
> Andy: ‘I dunno. Um…hold on…what about this jacket?’  
> Johnny: ‘Hmm. Well…it is a nice warm one…’  
> Morrissey: ‘What are you two talking about?’  
> Johnny: ‘Nothing, nothing…just come here. Hey, Paul! Watch this!’  
> [Major snog-fest ensues. Camera melts, destroying all evidence.]  
> Morrissey: ‘…..’  
> Johnny: ‘All right Andy, hand it over…’
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Never happened, all slander and lies.

Andy gasped and cursed softly as he came. He had to remind himself to keep quiet; the walls in this hotel were paper-thin and he didn't need his bandmates teasing him the next morning about the quality time he spent with his right hand. Especially when the person Andy had in mind during said quality time was in the next room, lying in his own bed that stood next to the wall separating the two rooms. Literally not even a foot away because Andy's bed stood against that wall too.

Andy exhaled a long breath and buried his face in a pillow, embarrassment finally taking over. What the Hell was he doing?

Fingers still wrapped around his softening cock, he gave himself one last stroke and reached with his come-covered hand for a pack of tissues lying on a bedside table.

This was pathetic, he thought wiping himself and throwing the tissue over his shoulder.

Pathetic and utterly sick. Who the fuck wanked over their friends? Their male friends. Their male _celibate_ friends.

He'd have better luck pining for Robert Smith, even though Smith despised Morrissey and by extension probably the whole band. At least _he_ didn't claim celibacy so if Andy somehow managed to pass himself off as an adoring fan, maybe he could even shag Bobby in some dark alleyway. Or at least suck him off.

"..."

Andy banged his forehead against the wall. All this sexual frustration was clearly making him insane. And it was all Johnny fucking I-bet-I-can-snog-Mozzer Marr's fault.

Andy heaved a resigned sigh and closed his eyes. He just couldn't help it. Ever since he saw Johnny plant that smacker on a greatly surprised Morrissey, he just couldn't stop thinking about it. He could've laughed it off as a great joke then except that, as he watched the kiss becoming less of a challenge and more of a caress, he suddenly didn't feel like laughing. Instead he had to turn away, certain the warmth in his belly would result in an embarrassing blush or even more embarrassing hard-on any second.

After that everything went downhill. Andy started fantasising. First only remembering that kiss - the way Morrissey's eyes widened, almost comically, as he was grabbed and kissed within an inch of his life. Yep, Johnny wasn't holding back even as he eyed Andy midway through the snog, a mischievous spark of triumph in his look.

Andy recalled as Morrissey's hands settled unsure on Johnny's hips, fingers tightening but not pulling Johnny closer. Neither they seemed to be pushing him away, though, and instead they just clutched him for balance.

Andy licked his dry lips, the scene and the funny feeling it had given him only too clear in his mind. Like some discovery waiting just around the corner, something potentially life-changing, something that would grab him and force its way inside his brain unless he turned away.

But he hadn't. Heart beating faster, Andy watched his best friend lock lips with a bloke who was fast becoming his intellectual guru. And when Andy finally did turn away, it was far too late.

Andy rolled onto his other side, drifting into his fantasy again. Because recalling the scene was only the beginning. Soon after that kiss (which had left Morrissey rather bemused - he had shaken his head and told Johnny he had the strangest ideas about bets) Andy's imagination grew bolder. He would imagine Morrissey responding to the kiss, his lips opening and letting Johnny's tongue inside because Johnny would do that - confidently take control. Andy had seen Johnny kissing his girlfriend a few times and he felt he had a pretty good idea of how he would steer the proceedings.

Then Morrissey's arms would wind around Johnny's waist, bringing them closer together, and his hands would move under Johnny's jacket. Maybe his fingers would even venture under the belt of Johnny's jeans, just enough to tease the top of his buttocks.

Andy bit his lip and reached behind to run a finger over his tailbone. He squirmed a little at the tickling pleasureable sensation it produced. He gently rubbed the spot and gasped quietly as the touch and the fantasy made him hard again.

He closed his eyes and the image changed slightly. Now it was him instead of Johnny standing in the circle of Morrissey's arms. Andy's hands would travel up his bandmate's back, his fingers slipping into the dark hair and stroking the nape of Morrissey's neck.

Their kiss would deepen and Andy would feel Morrissey's tongue shyly curling around his own. It would be so nice, so gentle because Morrissey wouldn't have much experience in kissing and Andy could for once take the lead. And Morrissey would respond to him so beautifully. Their tongues would stroke each other, learning the taste, their mouths would be wet with each other's saliva, and Morrissey would gasp in surprised delight as Andy nibbled his lower lip.

Then Andy's hand would move down Morrissey's back, scratching gently along his spine and that would make Morrissey's own hands curious. He'd untuck Andy's shirt from his jeans and press his palms - slightly cold - to Andy's lower back, bringing both of them even closer together.

And then Andy would feel it. Impossible not to in such close proximity, not a tenth of an inch between them.

Morrissey would be hard for him.

Andy moaned into his pillow, stroking himself lightly and smiling. That was his favourite part. He'd look at Morrissey's flushed but smiling face, rubbing his own hard-on against Morrissey's and making him groan. By that time they both would be a little short of breath. Morrissey's lips would be red and slightly swollen, making Andy want to nibble them again, but before he could, Morrissey would get that look - maybe a bit unsure but determined - and murmur:

"There's something I'd like to do."

Andy would lower his head to kiss Morrissey's throat. "Yeah?"

"Definitely." Morrissey would sigh at the caress and then he'd kneel down. His fingers would be quick, even if they trembled a little, as they unbuttoned and unzipped Andy's jeans. Andy would almost stop breathing - he'd never dared to hope...

Then Morrissey would gently pull out Andy's hard dick from the confines of his underwear and wink up at him.

"So nice. And all for me." He'd grin at Andy's stunned face before taking his cock into his mouth to suck eagerly.

After that point Andy never lasted long. He jerked himself faster imagining Mozzer's clever lips wrapped so lovingly around his flesh. Probably the only time he'd actually have some meat in his mouth, Andy thought, a somewhat desperate giggle tickling his throat.

Back in the fantasy he'd slip his hands into Morrissey's hair, ruffling that magnificent quiff and Morrissey would close his eyes in pleasure, leaning into his touch like a cat wanting to be petted.

With a muffled shout - thank God for this pillow - Andy came, the image of Morrssey's throat working as he swallowed perfectly clear under his eyelids, even if only for a second.

"Steven, oh fuck, Steven," Andy whined a little, still panting.

Thank God Morrissey couldn't hear him. Although he'd probably be more offended by the use of his Christian name than by Andy wanking off to him. And wasn't _that_ a reassuring thought.

But Andy liked that name. In those quiet, not-yet-maudlin afterglow moments he liked to imagine Morrissey not only letting him use his first name, but liking it. Saying he'd never cared for it until Andy moaned it like that. All the while dropping tiny kisses on Andy's face and then finally reaching his mouth and letting Andy taste himself on his tongue.

 _Fucking pathetic._

Andy reached for another tissue and wiped himself - again - with a few vindictive swipes.

The only good thing in this whole fucking mess that was this unreasonable infatuation was the fact that Mozzer would never _ever_ notice. Andy was just a blip somewhere on the periphery of Mozzer's radar. Hardly a presence worth noticing. And maybe it was better this way.

It _was_ better this way. Who knew what would happen if Steven ( _Morrissey_. Keep the fucking names right, you twat, Andy thought savagely) noticed. Okay, maybe there wouldn't be a row but everything _would_ be awkward and uneasy and then everyone would meet and reach a collective decision that things can't go on like this and Andy would be booted out of the band anyway. He'd probably end up picking up the pieces of his heart for the rest of his life. It didn't bear thinking about.

No, it was much better that Morrissey seemed to focus his social interaction with the band on Johnny. Johnny who was the first to find him and who worked with him long before Andy, or Mike, even heard about the group.

And it was all right too that Johnny was the only person Morrissey ever hugged - even if only for a photo shoot. Andy was safe that way.

And he wasn't jealous. Much.

He sighed and closed his eyes in an attempt to beckon sleep. There was nothing else he could do.

* * *

On the other side of the thin wall Morrissey frowned slightly. He could've sworn he'd just heard someone behind that wall saying his name. Well, more like moaning his name and the someone had to be Andy since they had adjoining rooms.

Morrissey's frown deepened. The bassist undoubtedly had some girl in there with him. And she was probably named Stephanie or some such. And she and Andy were undoubtedly doing what any normal healthy couple would do in bed.

Morrissey grimaced slightly, but he had to give points to the girl: she was quiet. Very very quiet. But she had to be there, even if Mozzer didn't remember Andy taking any guests to his room this evening. She had to be there simply because the only other possible explanation was actually _im_ possible. And not only that, it was also idiotic to even think about.

Which didn't stop Morrissey from briefly imagining Andy lying in his bed, just a few feet away, and moaning 'Steven' as those strong, bassist's fingers played over the pale skin...

Morrissey suddenly remembered how Andy told him once that when he was learning how to play the bass with his thumb, he was "getting all masturbatory on it"*. The words accompanied by a self-deprecating snort of laughter and a twinkle in the green eyes.

He couldn't help but wonder now just how accurate the description was. Would Andy thumb the head of his... cock - Morrissey chewed his lip, the word sounding so dirty in his mind - just like he'd thumb the strings of his bass? Would he arch his spine, head thrown back, the other hand gripping the sheets and--

Stop it, stop it.

Morrissey shut his eyes and exhaled noisily. If he ever had any hope of looking his own bassist in the face again when he played, this had to stop right now. And what on Earth was he doing anyway, imagining his very male and - more to the point - very straight bandmate wanking and moaning his name?

That leap of deductive reasoning was really something, wasn't it, Steven? Aren't you just brilliant tonight.

God, he hated it when his own mental voice mocked him.

What possessed him to think Andy would be even remotely interested in him? True, there were times when he caught Andy staring at him, but nearly all those times the bassist had such a vacant expression on his face that Morrissey had always assumed he was stoned out of his mind and what he was staring at didn't make the slightest difference.

And then there were also times when he and Andy found themselves alone, usually waiting for Johnny, and sometimes for Mike, and those times it seemed Andy's personal goal was to make Morrissey laugh.

It usually worked. Morrissey had found that Andy's sense of humour matched his own surprisingly well. And unfortunately he'd always had a soft spot for people who made him smile. The story of his life, really: those who made him laugh or brought him flowers got under his skin to a sometimes frightening extent.

And Andy did both. Made him laugh and, strangely enough, brought him flowers, that is. On Morrissey's last birthday, Andy turned up unannounced at his doorstep, at eight in the morning, and avoiding his eyes and mumbling something about happy birthdays, gave him an orchid. The small flowers seemed to glitter with vibrant colours in the morning sun.

That was probably the first and the last time Morrissey was literally rendered speechless. He'd stood there looking from the flowers to Andy and back again, his eyebrow climbing higher and higher before he finally managed a "thank you".

Then Andy mumbled something about an important appointment and virtually fled, leaving behind him a lingering smell of something suspiciously like pot.

And of course the orchid. That still - months after the fact - didn't show any signs of dying. Morrissey was almost inclined to think it bordered on witchcraft.

He sighed because there were also times like the day after his birthday: Andy, Johnny and Mike getting steadily drunk on alcohol and post-gig euphoria, talking about girls, picking them up (well, Johnny not so much - he had Angie with him) and nursing love bites and hangovers from Hell the next morning. And Morrissey would be forcibly reminded yet again he and Andy had absolutely nothing in common.

Except a fondness for Stevie Smith, Morrissey's treacherous mind whispered. He frowned. He _did_ see Andy buried up to his ears in a collection of her poems back when they used to travel in their old Reno van. He remembered as Andy's cheeks flushed slightly when he looked up from the book and saw Morrissey observing him. He smiled that shy, close-mouthed smile and ducked his head, eyes going back to the pages before him and the sight made something warm unfurl in Morrissey's chest. It made him want to reach out and... do something. He didn't know what exactly: pat Andy's head, compliment him on his reading choices or say he looked pretty with his glasses on.

Yes, well... Enough of this foolishness. Morrissey closed his eyes, resolutely ignoring the lingering whispers of his imagination. Though it took a bit to shake off the feeling of fingertips - skin hardened by thick bass strings - drawing strange patterns over his naked back, soft lips following their path--

 _Shut up, Steven, just shut up._

For one desperate moment Morrissey thought it surely couldn't go on like this forever. The situation was bound to become uncomfortable and, in the end, unbearable.

And then he cracked a faint self-mocking smile. He could always do what he did best: look the other way, bury the more tender feelings under a mound of thinking and occasionally use them for lyrics. Andy wouldn't notice anyway.

* * *

* That quote is absolutely true and lifted directly from "Inside The Smiths" documentary.


End file.
